Once, she thought time had fallen in love with her back. As she was no longer afraid of it, counting it or mourning it. And she’d been enamoured with the marks it had left on her skin, each faint wrinkle and freckle was a kiss or a touch it had grazed on its passing. There was no tragic love though the end was death. She thought time had been enough for her, even if Death had not given her seven more days to live.
